


Oddments

by dark_pookha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, Drabble Collection, Drug Abuse, F/M, Intervention, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_pookha/pseuds/dark_pookha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a drabble collection with a wide variety of drabbles. Most were written for 'The Last Drabble Writer Standing' challenge at the now defunct eHPF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keeping up the fight

Keeping up the Fight

  
  
            The dying candle in the corner of the desk guttered and smoked as Cho sat hunched over her parchment, trying to decide how to continue after ‘Dear Michael.’  Crumpled balls of parchment littered the ground near the desk.  She looked over at the photograph of Cedric on the other corner of her desk and sighed.  He stood straight and tall, clad eternally in his Quidditch robes; a smile on his handsome face as he turned to shake hands with Oliver Wood before a match.  
  
            She picked up the photograph and stroked its surface, lingering over Cedric’s face, as her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.  She put it back down on the desk, making sure that it lined up just so in the corner.  She reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out a lacy handkerchief, sending a Galleon skittering across the desk.  It came to rest in a small spot of solidified wax that had fallen from the candle.  She wiped her eyes with the handkerchief, and began to put it away when she noticed the Galleon had melted the wax around it.  
  
            Her hands shook as she eagerly held the coin up to the sputtering candle to read the numbers on the edge.  She spun the coin around twice, making sure she read it correctly.  She stood quickly, upsetting the chair in her haste.   
  
            She blew out the candle and turned to Disapparate, but paused in mid-turn.  
  
            _“Accio photograph!”_  
  
            The photograph zipped into her outstretched hand.  She stroked its surface once more, wrapped it reverently in her tear-soaked handkerchief, and then turned and Disapparated.  
  
 


	2. Semper Fidelis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie/Tonks

The young couple sat hunched over a table at Madam Puddifoot’s. A golden cherub sprayed pink confetti over them, the girl looking up just in time to get the full load of confetti right on her face. As it landed on her, her hair changed colour to match it. The boy shooed the cherub away and laughed as the girl coughed, expelling the confetti she’d inhaled.

“Not funny, Charlie,” she said, laughing as she sputtered.

Charlie reached over and pulled off a piece that had caught on her nose. “Dora.” Her face hardened and she began to speak. He continued, “Sorry, Tonks. I—there’s something I wanted to ask you.” He lowered his eyes, focusing on his tea.

Tonks lifted his chin until she could see his eyes. “What is it?”

Charlie took her hand in both of his, holding it tightly. “You know I’ve got an offer to go to Romania to work with the dragon conservation efforts there?” 

She nodded.

Charlie gripped tighter. “I want you to come with me.”

Tonks pulled her hand back. “I can’t,” she said simply. She dug around in a large purse, and pulled out a letter. Smiling broadly, she handed it to him. “I’ve been accepted into Auror training, assuming I pass all my N.E.W.T.s.”

Charlie read the letter, his face falling more with each line. “I thought you’d decided not to apply.”

“I changed my mind.” She stirred her tea, watching the vapour that rose off it. “I didn’t tell you in case I wasn’t accepted.”

“I—I love you,” Charlie blurted.

“What?” 

“I love you, Nymphadora Tonks. I’ve loved you since we were fifteen.” 

Tonks stared at him, her face flushing crimson. “Oh, Charlie, you’re my friend, my best mate, but I don’t love you, not like that. I—we’re not for each other, we’re too much alike, you and I.”

Charlie looked around at the other couples before responding. “I think I knew that, but I had to tell you; I couldn’t hold it in any longer.”

Tonks moved to the chair next to him and put her arm around him. “You’ll find the right woman someday. I promise we’ll both be at each other’s weddings.” She crossed her heart.

He got up, shrugging off her arm. “I need some time to think.” As he walked out the door, head down, a cherub sprinkled him with confetti.

 

 

 

Charlie knelt in front of the grave, his long, greying hair whipping in the blustery February wind. He stood and pulled a small paper bag out of his overcoat. 

He bowed his head. “I’m glad you found the right man. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you: both of you.”

He opened the bag and spilled the pink confetti, now brittle and yellowing with age, over the grave, watching as it blew in a spiral in front of the headstone.

As he walked away he whispered, “I still love you.”


	3. Equality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Griphook and the Mirror of Erised.

   The younger goblin helped the older one into the cart.  “Where to, Master Griphook?”  
  
            “Vault seven hundred and thirteen, Targ.”  
  
            After a long, twisty, harrowing ride, they arrived at the vault.    
  
            Targ approached the door nervously.    
  
            “Do it just like I showed you.”  
  
            The goblin stroked a finger down the door and it melted away, revealing an empty vault, except for a large object covered with a dusty cloth.  
  
            As Griphook limped into the vault, Targ asked, “Master, why are we here?”  
  
            Griphook pulled out a small scroll and consulted it.  “Rent hasn’t been paid on this vault for over fifty years and we’re to inventory it for auction.”  
  
            He yanked the cloth off in a shower of dust, revealing a huge mirror with a gilt frame.    
  
            He examined the gold first, testing it with his a fingernail to see if it was real.  He made a notation in his scroll with a quill.  He read the inscription around the top and paused.  He made another notation.  
  
            Finally, he stepped in front of the mirror.  He peered myopically at it.  His eyes grew large and he stepped closer and touched it.  The quill and scroll tumbled from his unfeeling fingers.  
  
             _Griphook saw himself seated at a large desk.  Mountains of gold and precious gems spilled off it.  The Sword of Gryffindor was behind him, encased in glass.  He could almost hear the clinking of the gold as counted it.  A wizard entered, knelt in front of him, and handed him a long, thin, leather case._  
  
 _The wizard spoke, his mouth moving in silence.  Griphook couldn’t hear him, but somehow, he knew just what the wizard said._  
  
 _“Your wand, Master Griphook.”  The wizard stood and held out his hand.  “Congratulations  on being the first goblin to achieve wizard status.  We hope more of you will be joining us soon.”_  
  
 _Griphook opened the case, revealing an ebony wand.  He waved it at the coins and watched as they sorted themselves into piles.  He put the wand back into its case and shook the wizard’s hand._  
  
            Targ shouted from the doorway, “Master, are you okay?”  
  
            Griphook didn’t respond.  
  
            The younger goblin raced forward to see Griphook staring into the mirror, one hand touching it.  Targ quickly threw the cloth back over the mirror, gently pulling Griphook’s hand away from the mirror.  
  
            Griphook blinked and looked around, disoriented.  
  
            “Master, what was it?”  
  
            Griphook retrieved his scroll and quill from the ground and made a notation.  
  
            “The lost Mirror of Erised, missing for more than a millenia.”  
  
            He pulled a form from a pocket, quickly filled it out and handed it to Targ.  “See to it that it’s transferred to my office; it’s too valuable to auction back to wizards.”  He turned and spat as he said ‘wizards.’  
  
            He turned to leave.  When he reached the door he shouted back to Targ.  
  
            “And don’t look into it!”  
  
            Targ jerked his hand back from the cloth and left to follow his master.  
  



	4. Coitus Interruptus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Ginny having fun in a bathtub.

    Hot lips moved over her, lingering below her ear.  His breath on her neck made her gasp.  She settled further back into his arms, tilting her head back to allow him to kiss down her shoulder.  He wrapped his arms around her, lifted his hands from the water and began to caress her pale, freckled skin.  Where he touched, small bubbles trailed along behind his fingers, leaving a map of his touch in spirals and lines.  Even with the warm water, goosebumps crept along her skin.    
  
            She turned to face him, sliding her legs over his thighs.  She ran her dark red hair over his chest, trailing it up and over, onto his shoulders, covering them both with her crimson tresses.  She pulled her delicate fingers through his dark, tangled hair, exposing the scar on his forehead.  She traced the outline of it.  Green eyes met brown and she smiled.  She snuggled in even closer, removing any space between them.  
  
            The candles along the rim of the tub began to run low.  Water sloshed over the rim, first one way then the other.  As it hit the candles, the room fell into twilit shadows; only a small moon-sliver shone through the window.  Water slid across the tiled floor in slow motion.  His hand gripped the enamelled tub edge tightly, followed by her hand grasping his wrist.    
  
            There was a knock at the door.  
  
            “Mummy!”   
  
            A small child’s voice shouted from behind the door.  
  
            “Mummy!   I gotta poopy!” 


	5. A Christmas Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dobby watches Malfoy Manor on a Christmas Eve.

   A cold rain spattered Dobby’s head as he looked into Malfoy Mansion.  Anyone looking out right now would see him levitating, his stained and ripped pillowcase billowing in the blustery wind.  His bat-like ears drooped, his nose ran with a viscous, clear mucous, and his eyes brimmed with tears.  
  
            He reached out a grubby, long-fingered hand and wiped the pane clear.  Pressing his nose up against the glass, he watched as his old mistress came into the room.  
  
            She walked briskly; she always moved like she had a purpose.  She carried brightly wrapped Christmas parcels to the white-flocked tree in the corner of the drawing room.  Crystal ornaments shone as they spun, catching the light from the chandelier and spilling rainbows across the dark purple walls.  
  
            Dobby turned his head to watch as she arranged the gifts, placing them just-so under the tree.  She pulled her wand out of her immaculate, emerald-green robes and waved it at the tree.  Candles sprung to light among the branches, burning with a bright yellow flame.  The crystal ornaments caught the extra light from the candles, intensifying and multiplying the rainbow patterns.  
  
            She started to leave the room, more slowly this time.  She turned and looked around, her wand ready.  She tensed and looked out at the weather, seeming aware that she was being observed.  She moved toward Dobby, but then turned her head suddenly back to the door she had come in.  Her lips moved as she called back through the open door.  She turned and left the room, with one last look back.  
  
             Dobby waited a few seconds after she had left before dismissing his Disillusionment Charm.  He continued to watch, seeming indifferent to the weather.   
  
            Dripping wax from a candle spilled onto a candle below it, which sputtered and almost went out, but then flared back to life with a long lick of flame.  The branch above it caught and the white flocking went up almost at once.  In just a few seconds, the entire tree was ablaze and the purple walls behind it blackened and started to catch.  
  
             Dobby watched, his arm rising and then falling, indecision showing in his jerky movements, and his twitchy eyes.  He watched as the entire corner of the room caught and began to burn.    He looked down at the black sock covering his left foot and his face softened.  He raised his eyes, looking back at the conflagration.  
  
            He lifted his arms and screwed up his eyes.  The flames went out, leaving behind a greasy pall of smoke.  He waved his arms around like a windmill and the smoke disappeared.  The blackened, forlorn tree stood sentinel in the corner of the room, the presents under it ruined and the portraits behind it soot-covered and coughing.  
  
             “Dobby wanted to let you burn, you bad Dark wizards,” he said quietly, “but Harry Potter would never let you burn, so Dobby won’t, either.”   
  
            With a crack, he Disapparated.  
  



	6. Unwelcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco meets an angry mob.

The hooded man bumped Draco viciously as he walked by.  “Should have stayed in hiding, Malfoy,” he whispered.    
  
            Draco drew away from the man, pushing Scorpius behind him.  “Just what do you plan to do about it, Borgin?”  
  
            Borgin opened his robe enough to show his wand underneath.  “You’ll find out in due time, blood traitor.  You should have told your aunt the truth about Potter when you had the chance.”  He strode off toward Knockturn Alley.  
  
            “Dad, what’s a blood traitor?”  
  
            “I’ll tell you later.”  
  
            They continued their shopping.  Together they bought Scorpius’s books and robes.  Draco tried to protect his son from the stares of the other shoppers, but Scorpius noticed anyway.  “Why is everyone staring at us?”  
  
            “I’ll tell you later.”  
  
            Finally, they arrived at Ollivander’s.  As Draco started to pull the door open, a delicate finger tapped him on the shoulder.  
  
            “Out shopping are you?  My son will never shop again.”    
  
            Draco turned to find a woman behind him.  She must have been about the same age as his mother and she seemed vaguely familiar.  Her lined face and greying hair spoke of a hard life.  “Do I know you?”  
  
            “No, but you knew my son Cedric.”  She spat in his face.  “Death Eater scum; I should kill you myself.”  
  
            Draco reached into his pocket, pulled his wand and offered it to her.  She shrank back from him and started screaming.  “Please don’t kill me!”  She stepped back, noticed a crowd gathering and started playing it up.  She sobbed and screamed as Draco backed away, pushing Scorpius behind him, pressing him up against the door of Ollivander’s.  Draco put his wand away and tried to pull open the door behind him without taking his eye off the crowd.  The sleeve of his robe caught the door handle and exposed his faded Dark Mark.  
  
            A stone whistled from in the crowd and struck him on the temple.  He crumpled as blood spurted.  A Stunning Curse shot out of the crowd and hit him squarely in the chest.  The woman melted into the crowd.  More stones and curses struck his body as he lay helpless.    
  
            The door behind him opened.  A streak of bright red hair came through first, followed by a wand.  “ _Protego!”_  
  
            The Shield Charm sprang around Draco and Scorpius as Ollivander and his new young assistant dragged them into the shop.  Ginny stood protectively at the door, keeping her Shield Charm going until Draco and Scorpius were safely in the shop.  She dropped the Shield, quickly pushed the door closed, and glued it shut with her wand.  
  
            She summoned her Patronus and sent it off with the message, “Harry, get Ron and come to Ollivander’s right away.”  
  
            James and Albus were gently trying to pull Scorpius away as Ollivander and his assistant tended Draco’s wounds.   
  
            Draco began to come around, noticed Ginny standing by the door and closed his eyes.  
  
            “Thanks, Weasley,” he said weakly.  
  
            “It’s Potter, now,” she said automatically.  “And you’re welcome.”


	7. Sartorius Wrecks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artorius tries to impress Elayne the Norman with a new spell. Founder's era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was 2nd in the 'Last Drabble Writer Standing Challenge' with this entry. Georgia_Weasley at HPFF was the winner.

  Mordaut leaned over closer to his friend and whispered, “Why do you want to impress her anyway?  She’s a Norman: an invader.”  
  
            Artorius looked unbelievingly at Mordaut.  “Have you seen her?  Her hair is like spun gold, and her lilac eyes bewitch me.”  
  
            Both of them recoiled as a snake-headed walking stick slammed between them.  “No talking during my lesson!”  
  
            “Yes, Father.”  
  
            “Yes, Master Slytherin.”  
  
            As Master Slytherin picked up his walking stick, he tapped Artorius with it.  “Mister Gryffindor, perhaps you can tell me how to protect yourself from the Killing Curse?”  
  
            Artorius stood.  “It cannot be prevented, Master Slytherin, only dodged.”  He sat, grinning as Master Slytherin sneered at him hatefully.  
  
            After class, Mordaut and Artorius went down to the lake and sat watching the sun play on the water.  
  
            “Please, Mordaut, I’ll do anything,” Artorius begged.  
  
            Mordaut sighed dramatically.  “Very well.”  He took out his wand as he stood.  “The wand motion is thus.”  He moved his wand over his plain, black school robes.  “And the incantation is _Sartorio._ It’s very important to concentrate on what you want your clothing to look like. _”_  
  
 _“Sartorio.”_  
  
Mordaut’s robes gradually lightened from black to dark purple, and a light golden trim appeared on the edge.  
  
            Artorius stood.  
  
            _“Sartorio.”_  
  
            His robes shortened and changed to a red and yellow-striped tunic that ended just above his knees.   It gathered at the elbows and then flared out outrageously.  Striped red and yellow hose appeared on his legs, seeming to grow into his pointed shoes.  
  
            He admired his clothes momentarily before he rushed off.  “Thank you, Mordaut!”   
  
            Mordaut waved lazily in his direction.  He changed his robes back to their normal black.  After a moment, Ambrosius came to sit beside him.    
  
            “Where’s Artorius rushing off to?” he asked, settling in.    
  
            “He went to show off his new clothes to Elaine.”  
  
            “Elaine the Norman?  Why?” asked Ambrosius.  
  
            “Ask him yourself; here he comes.”  
  
            Artorius walked back into view, oozing pustules covered his face and his fine outfit was rent and covered in small smoking holes.  Angry red burns blistered under the holes.  
  
            Mordaut and Ambrosius both went to help Artorius as he weaved toward them.  
  
            “What happened?” Ambrosius asked, starting to mend the holes in Artorius’ clothes.  
  
            Artorius turned to Mordaut.  “Remember you told me that it was important to concentrate on how I wanted the clothing to look?”  
  
            Mordaut nodded.  
  
            “Well, I wanted to show Elaine how to perform the charm, so I performed it on her.”  He grimaced as Mordaut cleaned a burn.  “I guess I didn’t properly concentrate on what I wanted her robes to look like.”    
  
            Ambrosius barely managed to stifle a grin.  “You didn’t, did you?”  
  
            “I did.”  Artorius laughed grimly.  “I Vanished her robes instead.”  
  
            An angry female voice shouted at them from the distance, cursing in French.  
  
            They fled as Elaine, dressed only in her linen shift, ran at them, firing curses indiscriminately.    
  
            Mordaut leered as he ran.  “Now I understand what you see in her.”


	8. Cold Black Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romilda Vane stalks Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter.

I had always been told that jealousy was a green-eyed monster, but I found that jealousy was black; black like the rage that comes over me when I see my Harry with that slag, Ginny.  It’s a cold rage, not a hot, blood in the mouth type of rage.  The way she clings to him and hangs off his arm makes me want to hurt her.  Why can’t he see that she’s trash, just like all the rest of her dirt-poor family?  She only played Quidditch in school to be near my Harry.  She’s only friends with Loony Lovegood because Loony’s his friend, too.  
  
When I saw them kissing after the Quidditch match, I wanted to kill her.  I could picture the green jet of light hitting her and her falling, watching the light leave her eyes as I stood over her.  I wanted her to know that I killed her, killed her for stealing my Harry.  No one can stand between me and Harry.  I like it when the rage washes over me; it frees me to do what’s necessary to keep Harry.    
  
The rage allowed me to put the love potion in the Chocolate Cauldrons.  The rage allowed me to tip off Snape to her sneaking out to steal the sword of Gryffindor.  The rage will allow me to kill her.  The black place the rage creates is comfortable.  I know what needs to be done when I’m in the black place.  Right now, it’s telling me that Ginny Weasley needs to die.  Right now, it’s telling me that only then can Harry and I be together forever.  
  
I’m happy that Neville told me where they live.  He didn’t even realise what he’d done; at least not after I hit him with the Imperius Curse and then a Memory Charm.  It won’t be long now before Ginny returns home from Quidditch practice.  It won’t be long now before she’s gone forever.  I’ll comfort Harry when she’s gone.  He’ll forgot her soon enough.  He’ll love me then.  
  
The Disillusionment Charm that I had cast over myself faded as I lost contol of my emotions.  I used the black center of rage in my heart to calm down again; my private black spot of rage.  I quickly cast the Charm again; I couldn’t be seen near their place or Hit Wizards would come after me again and I’d lose my chance to kill her.  
  
The bastards had taken me before when I broke into Harry’s flat and cleaned it for him.  He was living in a sty and I couldn’t have my Harry living that way.  Ginny was off playing Quidditch in Wales and Harry was in training with the Aurors.  The look on his face when he came home and found me in his bed will stay with me forever.  I could tell how much he wanted me, wanted me to be his lover, his wife, but that whore had him under her spell.  He stunned me and had me arrested and charged.    
  
That bitch made him file a restraining order.  That’s when I first actually swore to kill her rather than just thinking about it.   
  
The black spot in me had grown and now it filled me almost completely.  I waited outside the Harpies facility in Wales, but Ginny never showed.  Instead her scab-covered brother Ron showed up.  He saw me waiting for her and again I was arrested.  This time the bastards sent me to Azkaban for six months.  At least they don’t use Dementors anymore; I wouldn’t have wanted to lose my black center of rage.  
  
Now I’m out again, and waiting, waiting, waiting for the slut to return home.  Wait, who’s that?  That’s her, walking down the pavement.  She doesn’t realise that she only seconds left.  Letting my Disillusionment Charm fade, I step out from behind the tree.  The black center of rage now suffuses my entire body and I know I’ve made the right choice.  
  
“Ginny! Over here!”  
  
Look at her, smug as ever.  
  
“Avada Kedavra!”


	9. The Necromancer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romilda Vane's ghost in Azkaban gets visited by the Necromancer, George Krupp.

   I don’t know how long I rotted in my prison before the Necromancer returned.  His cowled, corpulent face searched my cell, but I was too well hidden for even his talents to spot.  
  
            “Romilda Vane.  I call to you Romilda Vane.  I know you’re here.  You will show yourself.”  His voice carried a compulsion with it.  A compulsion I couldn’t resist.  
  
            I materialised from the blood stain left on the floor of my cell by a previous occupant.  “What do you want you fuc—?”  
  
            “Be silent,” he commanded, interrupting me.  “You will only speak when spoken to or when I ask you a direct question.”  
  
            I opened my mouth and tried to speak, to give him a piece of my mind, but I found I couldn’t speak.  I started to dematerialise back into the blood spot, my sanctuary.  
  
            “Don’t go,” he commanded.  “You will stay as long as I require.”  
  
             I stopped, and turned to face him.  
  
            “Do you know why I’m here?” he asked.  
  
             I could feel his power forcing me to answer.  I struggled to push his influence away, but his will was just too strong.  “You’re here to punish me more.  You’re here to kill me: to kill me again!”  My voice rose and fell like the wind through trees, reedy and faint, but strong in its hatred.    
  
            “I’m not here to punish you.  I come to offer you a choice, but first you must hear me out and I will hear your story.  You will tell me everything.”  He reached into his pocket, took out a small model of a stool and placed it on the ground.  He pulled his wand and pointed it at the stool, causing it to become full-sized.   I felt the same revulsion to his wand as always and tried to avert my gaze, but found it locked on his wand; his wand that had imprisoned me.  It was made from bone, with a wrapping of gauze around the handle and it glowed an unhealthy green colour.  
  
            The Necromancer sat down on the stool.  As he sat, he noticed the way I looked at his wand and he put it away again in his pocket.  
  
            His voice softened as he spoke again.  “Do you know how long you’ve been a prisoner here?”  
  
             I sat down cross-legged on the floor and replied, “No.  When you’re dead, time has no meaning anymore.  I can’t see the outside from my cell and I’ve never had a visitor the entire time I’ve been here.”  
  
            He looked startled, and asked, “No one has ever visited?”  
  
            “I have seen no one except Dementors since you left me here to rot; left me in Azkaban, imprisoned me here.  The Dementors tried to feed on me a few times, but since I’m a ghost, they don’t seem to be able to feed and they always go away after a few minutes.”  
  
            He pulled his cowl back and I could see just how much he had aged.  When he’d imprisoned me, he was a vigorous young man of about twenty, now deep wrinkles creased his eyes and face.  His piebald head gleamed with sweat.  
  
            “Romilda Vane, hear me and know that I speak the truth.”  He spoke with the voice that could hide nothing from the dead.  “Romilda Vane, you have been imprisoned in Azkaban for almost eighty years.”  
  
            I shrank back as he spoke, trying again to break his hold on me and hide in the blood spot, but it was no use; he held me tightly in his mental grip.  
  
            “I came to you to let you know that it is the year of our Lord Twenty Eighty-two and that Harry Potter has died peacefully in his bed at the age of one hundred and two.”  
  
            My world went black for a moment and his control of me slipped.  “You’re lying!  Harry can’t be dead!  Harry can’t die!”  I swooped down into the Necromancer’s face, losing control of my form as I did.  He saw me as I was when I died, broken and bloody, the right side of my face removed and the shattered skull underneath exposed.  I howled in his face.  He pulled his repulsive wand again and waved it at me.  Slowly, very slowly as I shrieked and spat ghostly blood on him he gained control of me again.  He forced me to sit in the corner of the cell opposite from him.  He wiped my spittle from his face with a handkerchief.  Only he would actually be affected by ghost saliva.  
  
            I sobbed, but no tears would come in my ghostly form.  I tried to speak, but his compulsion from earlier had bound me again.  He noticed me struggling and said, “Speak freely.”  
  
            “How—how could it have been eighty?  How did my Harry die?”  I unconsciously used the same form of address that I did all those years ago.  
  
            “Harry died quietly in his sleep.  He had a stroke and his heart stopped a few minutes later.”  He shifted on his stool and continued.  “His sons James and Albus were at his side.  He had been ill for some time and it was a relief when he passed.  I was there as well to make sure that nothing interfered with his soul’s progress to the Afterlife.”  
  
            “You killed him!”  I shrieked.  “You killed him to make him one of your servants, just like you did with Myrtle.”  
  
            His face fell and I knew that I had hurt him.  “What happened with Myrtle was regrettable, but I didn’t make her a servant.  I’m here to offer you the same choice that I gave the Grey Lady all those years ago.”  He looked me directly in the eyes and spoke, “I’m giving you the choice to move on, to not be a ghost any longer.  I’m giving you the choice.  You can either rot here inside this cell for eternity or you can be released.  Most ghosts don’t get this choice, so think before you choose.”  
  
            I shrank back into the corner, the walls still felt cold and solid to me, even though I was a ghost.  “You just want to kill me forever and keep me away from my Harry.  You’ve never cared about me or about my condition.”  
  
            His face coloured and he spoke angrily, “You’re right; I’ve never cared for you.  You stalked and harassed Harry for years; you tried to kill Ginny; and you haunted them relentlessly after you died. No, I don’t care about you, but I do care for the dead.  As the dead, you deserve the choice.”  He calmed down, his face loosened.  “But, mark me,” he whispered, the compulsion growing in his voice again, “once the choice is made, it can’t be unmade.  If you choose to remain a ghost, I will make sure that you remain a ghost forever.  If you choose to move on, you can never come back.”  
  
            I knew instantly what my choice would be.  Only one choice would allow me to see my Harry again.  “I choose to move on.”  
  
            The Necromancer smiled then and I knew that he had tricked me, and that there really was no choice.  
  
            He pulled his wand, pointed it at me and spoke.  
  
            “Romilda Vane; you will hear me and obey.  You will leave this world and continue in your journey.  You will be reunited with family and friends, you will claim your place in the Afterlife.  I further geas and abjure you that you will seek no contact with Harry Potter or any of his family.  You will have no interest in him.”  
  
            I broke free of his control for just a moment and shouted, “No!  I choose to remain!”  
  
            He smiled as he ignored my plea, his face showing an evil glee.  “You have chosen already and the choice cannot be undone.  You will live forever in the Afterlife, tormented forever by the knowledge that Harry is with his family, happy and safe, while you live forever without him.  Part of you will yearn for him always and be denied.  This I command!”  
  
            He continued in Latin and in Greek and in a harsh mono-syllabic language I didn’t recognise and slowly I dissolved, my form becoming wispy as I moved on.  
  
            The last thing I said as I moved on was, “My Harry…”  
  
              
  
 


	10. Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill Weasley and Charlie Weasley's girlfriend Ioana try to get Charlie to come home and clean up.

The large red-haired man slept face-down in a puddle of vomit. He fortunately rested on his side so he wasn’t choking on it. A scarred man, who looked like his brother and a tall brunette woman Apparated into the small cabin with him. The scarred man grasped the larger man’s shoulder and shook him roughly.  
  
The man on the floor blinked his crusted eyes and turned his head.  
  
“Whaddya want?” he asked.  
  
“Charlie,” the scarred man said. “It’s time to come home.”  
  
Charlie coughed and tried to sit up. He only managed to get halfway upright before starting to sink back to the ground again. The brunette moved quickly and caught him. She summoned a pillow from the dingy couch and put it behind his back.  
  
Charlie leaned into the pillow and cradled his head in his hands. The woman went to the sink and grabbed a filthy towel from the heaping dish rack. She Scourgified it with her wand and then soaked it with clean water.  
  
“It’s been three years,” the man said. “Please, mum’s worried about you.”  
  
“Sod off, Bill; I’ve been busy.”  
  
“Busy getting pissed,” Bill replied. He pointed at the empty Firewhiskey bottles scattered everywhere.  
  
Charlie laughed, which caused him to cough uncontrollably. He gulped and almost vomited again, but held it in. The woman knelt behind him and pressed the damp towel on his forehead. He leaned back into her.  
  
“Thanks, Ioana.” He reached up and put his hand over hers. As he did, the sleeve of his robe slid down and revealed a series of scars and burns on his arm.  
  
“You’re welcome,” she said in a heavily accented voice.  
  
“What the Hell’s this?” Bill demanded, pointing at the collection of injuries to Charlie’s arms.  
  
“Ridgeback, Fireball, and Horntail,” Charlie said, pointing at a bite, burn and gouge in that order.  
  
“Don’t forget needle and broken bottle,” Ioana added, freeing her hand from Charlie’s grasp and indicating a series of needle tracks near the crook of his elbow.  
  
Charlie scowled and pulled his sleeve down. The towel fell into his lap with a splat. He looked down at the ground for a long time. When he looked up, his face was mottled with anger.  
  
“You think I don’t have it under control?” He jerked away from Ioana and rose unsteadily to his feet. “You don’t think I can stop any time I want?” He grabbed a half-empty bottle and started to raise it to his lips.  
  
Bill stepped forward and slapped it out of his hands. The bottle sailed across the cabin and shattered against a cabinet.  
  
“No, Charlie. I don’t think you can stop on your own.” Ioana moved to embrace him, but Charlie stepped back, right into Bill’s arms. “That’s why I asked your brother to come. I thought you’d listen to him where you wouldn’t listen to me.”  
  
Charlie tensed and started to move toward her, but Bill kept a tight grip on him.  
  
“I trusted you!” He yanked against Bill’s hold futilely.  
  
Ioana met his gaze bravely. “I was worried about you.” She put her hand on his face and stroked it tenderly. “I don’t want you to throw your career away. I don’t want you to throw us away.”  
  
Charlie spat out a derisive laugh. “There’s not going to be an ‘us’ after this, I can tell you that.”  
  
“I can live with that,” she said, her face impassive and voice calm, “as long as you get cleaned up.”  
  
“There’s nothing to clean up. I’m fine.” He finally broke free of Bill’s grasp and went to the sink. He filled a dirty glass from the sink and drank.  
  
“Well, mate, if you think there’s nothing to clean up; you haven’t looked into a mirror lately.” Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out a compact with a photo of a beautiful blonde woman on one side and a mirror on the other. He held the mirror in front of Charlie’s face.  
  
Charlie looked at himself in the mirror for a few seconds before pushing it down.  
  
“I don’t need you to tell me how I look.”  
  
Bill smiled tightly and pulled another photo out of his pocket. “Then you already know that you look like Uncle Fabian’s death mask.” He jammed the photo into Charlie’s hand.  
  
Charlie stared at the photo for a few seconds that stretched into a minute, then more.  
  
While he was distracted, Ioana moved a magazine on a table and quietly Vanished a needle and a sticky, resinous black ball. She also pocketed Charlie’s wand.  
  
“C’mon, Charlie, come back to England with me.” Bill put the photo and compact back into his pocket. “Mum’ll be happy to see you and you can meet your goddaughter for the first time.”  
  
Charlie shook his head. He waved his hand at an unopened stack of letters.  
  
“He hasn’t opened any mail from home for about a year,” Ioana said. “I tried to tell him what was happening, but he wouldn’t listen to me anymore.”  
  
“I’ve got to get to work,” Charlie said. He staggered to the table and started searching through the mess for his wand.  
  
Ioana shook her head sadly. “No, Charlie; you don’t have to work today. Don’t you remember? You were sacked last week. Mr Puscasu was concerned for you and didn’t want to see you killed because of your condition.”  
  
“Get out!” Charlie screamed. “Get out! Don’t come back!” He dug frantically for his wand.  
  
“You may not love me anymore after this, but I think you’ll appreciate me later.” She raised her wand.  
  
“Stupefy.” The red light struck Charlie in the chest and he collapsed into Bill’s waiting arms.  
  
“Do we need to take anything else?” he asked Ioana.  
  
She shook her head. “Let’s just leave.”  
  
She gripped Charlie’s slack hand and they Disapparated.  
  
 


	11. My first change, by Remus Lupin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus describes the first time he changed to a werewolf.

I’ve been asked what it was like the first time I changed. I didn’t want to tell y; I didn’t have the words, but I will try now. I worry about the life our son may have and the curse he may have inherited from me, so I want to be prepared if he suffers my fate. Lycanthropy can be passed down through the bloodline, although it is rare.  
  
I was young when it happened. My parents tried to hide it from me with their whisperings, but children always know their parents secrets. I don’t know exactly what my father had done to cross Greyback, but I knew about the letter that had been dropped on our doorstep, threatening vengeance against our family.   
  
I shouldn’t have been out by myself at night; I had been warned repeatedly, but I had gone to play in the garden anyway as my parents argued about sending me away somewhere safe. The ball bounced high off the ground, eclipsing the full moon as it reached its apex. I felt a hot stinging wash over my arm and looked down. A wolf, easily as tall as me, had slunk in and bitten me on the arm. Blood oozed out of the wound as the beast stared at me with its feral, yellow eyes. The intelligence in its eyes showed it wasn’t an ordinary wolf. It growled and I stepped back, away from it. I opened my mouth to scream and it leapt at me, pinning me to the ground. Its fetid breath washed over me as it put its teeth over my throat. It met my gaze and I knew it was telling me that it could kill me if it wanted. It raised its muzzle and howled.   
  
The light came on in my parents’ room and the beast leapt off and dashed away into the night. The wound hardly hurt at all, just bare punctures in my skin, but I could already feel the taint creeping its insidious way into my blood. I closed my eyes, but could still feel the pressure of the moon on my face. A weight that couldn’t be denied, it filled my pores with wildness. Normally, it would take time to change, for the infection to settle in, but I knew from the touch of the silvery rays that I would change that night.  
  
My father came running, to see what was wrong. I barked at him to stay back, but he knelt by my side. I held up my bleeding arm to him. He wept and cried out for my mother.  
  
I pushed him away as I felt the transformation start. Spasms wracked my body and my father tried to hold me down. His warm grip on my arms distracted me from the pain. Yet, still I screamed. A howl answered my scream from the edge of our garden and my father released me to raise his wand.  
  
Muscle cramps, nausea, the pain of a burn re-exposed to hot water as my skin flowed and the fur grew all pushed me to another scream. It was pain as I had never felt it before; a pain of every nerve on fire and every sense overloaded. Anger washed over me: a hatred of everything living. I wanted to make them all hurt as I hurt and fear as I feared.  
  
I would say it was pain beyond endurance, but I did endure. My vision changed, became more flat, but my sense of smell improved. My father stank of fear, a fear that I could smell even over my mother’s tea roses. He was afraid of me, or for me, I couldn’t tell. The growl came unbidden to my throat. A final twitch and a scream that shifted to a howl and I was beyond caring.  
  
My father looked down at me. I looked back over my snout and growled. He reached out to touch me, but pulled back as I snapped at him. A howling from beyond the garden wall came to me and I leapt away into the night with the pressure of the moon still pushing down on me. I lost my childhood that night.  
  



End file.
